Twelve leaves from a budding love-tree
by Hetep-Heres
Summary: "A series of love letters between Tom and Sybil" (during the time they kept their courting/relationship secret)". Sybil/Tom Secret Valentine Exchange : my present to "obessivewritingdisorder", after the above prompt she gave me. 12 chapters, one for each letter/note.
1. Chapter 1

_Hunched over a very small wooden table squeezed between her left neighbour's bed and her own, with two crumpled sheets of paper lying at her feet, Lady Sybil Crawley – or rather Nurse Crawley, now – was rereading for the umpteenth time the draft she had finally managed to come up with, before copying it out on a new blank leaf of high quality stationery. The scribbled sheet read:_

York, 18th December 1916

_Dea_ (_heavily crossed out_) Branson,

I must admit I've been struggling for a good half an hour now to know how to begin this letter _to you_ (_crossed out_), and as you can see, I failed miserably.

I've been trying to find the way to tell you I wish things to be alright between _us (crossed out_) you and me, to let you know that the last thing I want is things turning awkward once I'm back home.

Well, not exactly. To tell you the truth, the last thing I want once I'm back home is finding out that you're gone. As I told you when we parted a few days ago, I don't want you to _loose your job because of me (crossed out_) leave. Please don't go. Or at least, please don't leave because of me.

Anything that's been said and heard _between us (heavily crossed out_) doesn't have to be brought to anyone else's attention than _ours (crossed out_) yours and mine.

I've also been thinking these last few days about how to apologize to you for what I told you back then. I'm _fairly (crossed out_) _painfully (crossed out_) woefully aware that my reaction _to you (crossed out_) _to your propos (heavily crossed out_) has been neither the best nor the kindest one. First I hurt you with _my words (crossed out_) a word, then I tried to make a bit of humour when you weren't ready at all for it, and it hurt you even more. I am truly deeply sorry I did it.

Please believe that I did not intend to make light of _your_ (_crossed out_) _feelings (heavily crossed out_) _emotions (crossed out_) how you feel, I even admire you for being _brave enough (crossed out_) able to voice it. I know I would be totally unable to do so. I've not been taught how to. Or even, maybe I've been taught not to. I couldn't tell you if it's inherent in being "posh", to quote your own words, or in being English. But I'm quite sure being both doesn't help reacting very well as far as voicing of personal emotions is concerned.

Again, I'm sorry about how I reacted. I guess I just didn't know at all how to react. I must tell you I'm not Lady Mary, I'm not used to _men (crossed out_) people expressing _anything like that (crossed out_) any sort of appreciation for me, to me.

And here I am again, trying to make a joke because I _feel awk (crossed out_) am at a loss for words. You see? I'm afraid I'm a lost cause, just a hopeless posh English girl…

Anyway, I assure you I sincerely admire the bravery it required for you to open up to me _about your feelings (crossed out_); I would even say that I envy your courage and your strength. I know I'm not that brave.

And more than anything, I regret having hurt _your feelings (crossed out_) you. I swear it was the last thing I wanted, and thinking of the hurt I unintentionally caused you hurts me _too (crossed out_) back in turn. _Please (heavily crossed out_)_ I beg you (crossed out_) I hope you will find in _your heart (crossed out_) you to forgive me.

I've just reread what I have written above, and I feel ashamed because it turned out all about me, about how **_I_** was hurting and what **_you_** _had to_ _(crossed out_) could do to make me feel better, while the reason I decided to write this letter was to tell you I wish **_you_** feel better, and try to make sure you do…

Probably you're waiting for me to give you an answer to your question. _I can't (the whole line is heavily crossed out_)

Please don't act on any drastic decision you would make before you've first come to tell me about it, I know you don't owe me anything of course, so I will just hope you value our mutual _friendsh (crossed out_) understanding enough to do so. I really do hope you will be there to pick me up in two month and drive me home. _I'm looking forward to it (crossed out_)

_Kind (crossed out)_ Best regards,

Lady Sybil Crawley


	2. Chapter 2

**Letter 2**

As soon as she saw the envelope, she knew whom the mail she had just received came from. Not because of the postmark revealing it had been posted in Downton – half the people she knew and who would correspond with her lived in Downton. Not because she recognised the handwriting – it was one she did not remember having ever seen before.

No. It was because of the way she was referred to in the heading. The mail was not addressed to Lady Sybil Crawley. Instead, it read:

_Nurse Crawley  
York Hospital – Nursing school  
York, North Yorkshire_

_Downton, 24__th__ December 1916_

_Milady,_

_Be sure that I believe you when you say you didn't mean to hurt me. I know there is nothing in you that would want to hurt anyone, you are far too kind-hearted for that. Please ease your mind and soul about that._

_Since the day I dropped you in York, I've been worried you wouldn't want to talk to me ever again, apart from ordering a car ride. Your letter came then as some sort of a soothing relief. _

_I assure you I did not want to upset you, to disturb you. I am sorry I did, though._

_I presume I'm also supposed to tell you I regret telling you what I did that day, to apologise and to say I am sorry I did. But it would be a lie._

_I can't get myself to regret any word I said back then, and the more I think about it, the more I know I would repeat those all over again. I've been hiding this from you for too long, been hiding how I feel and keeping it sealed inside me far too much and for far too long. I just had to tell you._

_And probably the time was not right, or maybe there would never have been any right time for that, maybe you would have preferred me to never tell you, to keep the facade of the obedient emotionless servant and never say anything… _

_But I did. And now you know. And I can't unsay it. I wouldn't want to, anyway. In fact, and to be totally honest, I've never been prouder of anything in my life than I am of finally finding the courage to talk to you._

_The only thing there is to regret is that it made you upset, and I'm sorry about that. _Only_ about that. As for the rest, I won't take back what I said. I will even repeat it here: you're different from the others, you know me are all equal; I believe you are able to grasp the kind of life you would really want to live, and the changing times happening right now will place it within your reach, if only you are brave enough to dare jump a bit and seize it. And I trust you are._

_You have already begun to reach to it, come to think of it: you are not only learning how to devote your time to tend to wounded soldiers, you are indeed learning to work: and that is a whole new world opening up to you. You could have a job, a profession and not just an occupation, something to feel proud of, just like your cousin Mr Crawley. I trust you._

_Maybe your family would not approve of your choices, but I am sure they love you far too much to fall out with you, at least not for long, even if they disagree._

_You may think I'm telling you this to convince you to also accept me, and maybe you are right, after all. But I am certain that you are not going to be happy if you just go on living like you did until now – which was certainly a very happy childhood, but I am certain you don't want to remain a child forever. And you are too different from your parents to live the same life as theirs, or the one Lady Mary seeks. Don't read me wrong, I don't mean any disrespect to Lady Mary, but I just don't picture you being truly happy as just some sort of "mistress of the manor"._

_ And your happiness is what is most important to me. What matters most. I have no way to prove you that, so I can just pray that you believe me. Please believe me! The only thing I can do is to repeat over and over again that I'm willing to devote my life to your happiness._

_The offer still stands. It did not escape my notice that you didn't give any straight answer to it, neither that very day nor in your letter. I'll wait for it._

_I understand you need time. I'm willing to wait._

_I will come fetch you on the day you finish your training – unless His Lordship has any other plan for me by then – and you will find me waiting for you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_T. Branson_

_Post-Scriptum__: I nearly forgot, tonight is Christmas Eve! The first you will spend away from your family. I know how lonely it feels, not being able to be with your beloved ones on that Holy Night. I have spent those last Christmases thinking of a family reunited in a Dubliner flat. I know you will get this letter after Christmas, but still, I wanted to tell you that this year, I will not only be thinking of them, but also of you. I couldn't help myself, even if I wanted to. I wish you a merry Christmas, Lady Sybil._


	3. Chapter 3

_August 1917, morning._

A knock on his door.

Tom Branson was sure it was Mr Carson. The butler would have come to tell him that he was sacked, for having attempted and very nearly succeeded in humiliating and ridiculing Downton's guest of honour, General Strutt.

But no. Behind the door was only a young hall boy who handed him a folded note. Even in his already disheartened state, Tom was then a bit more disappointed: he had always deemed Mr Carson as a man of honour, in his own way. The kind of man who would tell an employee face to face that he was dismissed; never would have he thought Mr Carson would do it through a simple note delivered by a kid.

Holding out his hand to take the paper, Branson briefly wondered how long it would be before the boy was old enough to be draughted and taken away by the British army to be sent abroad and transformed into either a bloody pulp like the poor men he's seen in the hospital, or a murderer like those who killed his cousin. And maybe even both.

He looked at the folded sheet in his hand, and his heart sped up as he recognised the handwriting, even though only one word was written on the external side of it: "Branson"

He hastily thanked the boy and immediately closed the door, eager to read whatever she had to tell him but dreading it at the same time. "She knows", he thought. Well of course she knew, he had left her a note; she would have found it before going to bed and would have asked Mr Carson or Anna about what it meant first thing in the morning.

And she would be both upset and highly disappointed in him, now. That latter thought was the worst, to him.

That's why he had to read the note twice to understand that in fact she didn't know what he had done – or intended to do.

_Branson,_

_Papa just informed us that you had been taken ill yesterday at dinner. But Carson did not elaborate so he couldn't tell us what it is exactly you are suffering from. I hope it is nothing serious._

_Is it about your heart murmur? I thought it was nothing dangerous, though… _

_As we are now living in a house full of medics, I'll ask one of the doctors to go and have a look at you. It would be stupid not to have you examined while the whole castle has somehow become an annexe to the hospital. And that way _I' (crossed out)_ we will be all reassured._

_Please, let _me (crossed out)_ us know how you are and if you need anything. I hope you are not feeling too unwell. But if it is serious, tell me: Mama, Edith and I would arrange for you to have a bed in the house so that you can be properly looked after._

_Rest and take good care of your murmuring heart… Nurse's order!_

_Lady Sybil_


	4. Chapter 4

_Early 1918_

"Nurse Crawley!" a patient called her.

Sybil turned to the voice.

"Captain Hollister," she said, "is anything wrong?"

"Well," the officer chuckled, "you tell me… I thought nurses and patients weren't allowed to have any relationship beyond purely professional ones…"

"Indeed, Captain," Sybil answered in a rather lecturing voice, "I thought it had been made clear enough before."

"Yes, yes…" he replied, laughing. "And I got the message crystal clear the first time. But then," he went on teasingly, "I suppose the letter I found poking out from this pile of blankets contains strictly professional medical instructions?"

Smiling broadly, he handed her an envelope.

She took it and examined both sides of it: the front side only read "Nurse Crawley", the reverse side was sealed. To her utter embarrassment, she felt herself blush as she recognised the handwriting.

To Captain Hollister, it was obvious that Sybil had an admirer, if not a secret beau, among the convalescent officers.

"Don't worry Nurse Crawley, I won't tell anyone…" he assured her with a conspiratorial wink.

"Captain, it's not at all–"

He held up his bandaged hand to interrupt her.

"I'm a man of honour, and a good sport: I've learned to loose with good grace. But you'd better tell the lucky bugg–" he stopped himself, remembering to watch his language when talking to a woman, "sorry, the lucky fellow that he ought to be more prudent if he doesn't want to get you into trouble: anyone could have found this letter and given it to the matron or to Doctor Clarkson…"

Or even worse, to Papa or Carson, Sybil thought. Better let Captain Hollister believe she was being courted by one of the officers, after all.

She excused herself and left the room. On the one hand she wanted to read his letter now – simply out of sheer curiosity, she told herself – but on the other hand she was still mad at _him_ about what he said the day before, and she had been giving him the cold shoulder all day long to the point that she avoided going outside just so she wouldn't come across him. Hence him writing her a note, she thought, and taking the risk to slip it between two blankets. That was utterly foolish and reckless. What could be worth taking such a risk?

Curiosity got the better of her and she went to her bedroom to read it privately. It was hastily scribbled, with no heading. He certainly wrote it in a hurry.

_I regret the way I said some things yesterday. It came out wrong. It did not sound at all like that in my mind._

_I don't despise your job at all, quite the contrary: I've always found terrific that you were willing to do something, to work, to learn. It's just that in the convalescent home, you merely distribute blankets, push wheelchairs and pat their hands, all things that could be done by nearly anyone, while the skills you've learned and honed would be so much more useful in a real hospital!_

_But maybe I'm wrong, I don't really know what you do here, I just see it from the outside. I'm sure you also change their bandages and watch their medication and all, so please forgive me._

_I'm sorry I hurt you, I didn't mean to. Or maybe a small part of me did, I don't know. Maybe I took my anger and frustration out on you, as I did when I told you about my cousin being killed._

_Anyway, I shouldn't have and I truly regret it. After all, you have never asked me anything, never promised me anything and you owe me nothing. I'm sorry I reacted the way I did._

_The thing is, my mouth runs sometimes too fast, more than it should, and I end up saying things I regret later, because of the way they come out. That's probably why I'm better with a pen and a sheet of paper, and some time ahead of me to really think over what I'm about to write._

_On another note, if you say that we can trust your sister, then I will grant her some credit; you know her certainly better than I do, and if you think she is trustworthy, then in turn I will trust your judgment. I just hope you're right, not only for us, but also because I don't want you to be disappointed by someone you love. Lord knows I probably disappointed you enough yesterday, you don't deserve feeling betrayed by someone you trust._

_I hope I can apologise to you in person at the concert tonight. Please, forgive me._

_T_


	5. Chapter 5

_Early 1919, in the wee hours_

Tom Branson was rather disheartened when he finally got home. He had hoped never to come here ever again, had packed lightly, leaving everything that didn't fit in his suitcase behind him but not regretting it, the foreseeable future finally within his reach being worth it.

Except it had just been taken away from him a few hours ago. And now he was to resume his job as Lord Grantham's chauffeur, as if nothing had happened the previous night. Sighing as he crossed the threshold to get inside, Branson saw that an envelope had been slipped under his door. Only three letters on it: _Tom_.

He knew immediately whom it was from: no one else than her called him that in Downton.

The question was: was it a break-up letter? Had Lady Mary made her write it?

But she told him she would be true to him, though. Right before she left. Was that just some soothing words of good-bye? Some balm on his wound? Maybe she meant it back then, but after that, her sisters – mainly Lady Mary – had the whole ride back to talk her out of him, out of their future together… Did this envelope contain the end of all his hopes?

But she had assured him she was strong, she wouldn't let herself be talked into giving up on him. He just wasn't sure he had believed her, then. He still wasn't.

The answer was lying on the floor. But he dreaded to find it out. Maybe **he** wasn't strong enough, after all…

After half an hour of hesitating, of nearly tearing the envelope opened and then backing out, of turning and flipping it between his hands, he finally gathered the guts to open it and began to read.

_My dearest Tom,_

_Maybe you are resenting me right now for having left you alone in that inn, and I hope you'll forgive me for that._

_But Mary was right on one thing – and one thing only: I can't, __**we**__ can't run away like either criminals or children, because we're neither of these, and we deserve so much better than that!_

_Our life together mustn't begin with deceit and hiding, because we're not doing anything wrong. Loving you is not wrong, and I have the right to. Loving me is not wrong, and you have the right to. So when we leave, it's after we told my parents and announced them we are getting married. And we'll do this in broad day light._

_Anna, Edith and Mary won't tell anyone about tonight – first for fear of scandal, but not only. Of course Mary still expects me to change my mind about you, I'm not that naïve, but I can tell you they are in for a disappointment. They also know that as soon as they say anything, they'll loose me forever. They love me, they won't betray me as long as I don't run away again. And Anna likes and respects you, she won't betray you either. She swore she won't even tell Bates._

_Please believe me when I swear I won't give up on us. Lord knows I've spent enough time, enough sleepless nights thinking this over and over; it's not a rushed decision I've made, I can tell you now that I've been seriously considering your proposal for more than one year, mulling over it again and again, even though I didn't tell you any of this because I did not want to give you false hopes in case I finally turned it down. A bit like Doctor Clarkson not telling Cousin Matthew there was a small chance he could walk again, because it would then have been even worse for him to spend each and everyday in his wheelchair. _

_I hope you will forgive me all this wasted time, but this time is also the best proof that I won't go back on my decision: every objection, every fear they will have and bring out is one I have already thought over, and dismissed, and overcome. And that way I hope I will be able to calmly explain myself, expose my arguments and, maybe, convince them we're not going to ruin our lives. At least I hope I __**can**__ stay calm then. I'll try to. I want to convince them, not to quarrel nor fall out with them. _

_But if I can't, if __**we**__ can't, then at least we will not run away, we won't flee, no: we will just leave, like normal, adult and sensible persons, so that we have nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. Anyway, the law is on our side. We're not doing anything wrong or illegal, as we both are over 21 years old, and both unmarried._

_I'd like to tell you so much more, but that can't fit in a letter. We must make plans as to how and where we will live, think it more than we did yesterday. We need to find work outside of Downton Abbey, as well as a place to live. We need to talk about all this. I'll try to see you today, and if either Mary or Edith intends to cling to me all day long, I'm afraid they'll just have to play gooseberry or be the third wheel and deal with it!_

_Seriously, I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Please have faith in me._

_Sybil_


	6. Chapter 6

_28__th__ February 1919_

_My Darling,_

_I couldn't tell you earlier because your mother was in the car too, but I have received another rejection letter for a job I applied to. I'm sorry. It sometimes seems as though we'll have to wait another two years before we can get married and be openly together to the world and for all to see. I know Gwen didn't get a job at her first appliance or interview, but let's face it, she at least had the training for what she was applying to._

_Excuse me, I shouldn't be so negative, but I can't help champing at the bit now that we're both ready to go, to start a new life. Let's see the bright side of things, as you keep telling me: wherever I find a job and we end up to live, there'll be an hospital not too far, and with some luck a nursing school so that you can resume and go further in your training, to upgrade from VAD to fully trained and qualified nurse. I'm sure doctor Clarkson would give you a reference, and maybe Mrs Crawley too: she's never been afraid to disagree with the rest of your family._

_Do you think you could slip away to the garage, before or after dinner? I miss chatting with you._

_I miss you. That's a strange experience, living on the same grounds, seeing you many times a day, wishing you "good morning", then "good afternoon", and then "good evening" an even sometimes "good night", having you in the car, a few feet, a few inches from me, but even so missing you all along. I seem to never see you alone, and it makes me feel as if my heart were about to explode any minute._

_On the one hand, I hope you're not suffering the same, because it's hard to bear. But to be honest, on the other hand I must admit I'm also dreading to think that you don't feel the same about missing me. I know it's vain, cocky and presumptuous, as well as selfish, but I can't help myself. As you phrased it once, I'm "too full of myself for my own good"; but my whole being is even more full of you: this explains that, as a result, it feels a bit too tightly crammed inside poor old me. Hence that feeling of being about to explode, I guess!_

_On a more serious note, please try to find some time to come to see me, so that we can do some more waiting, granted, but side by side. It would soften the wait and sweeten its bitter taste._

_I'm thinking of you. Every waking minute._

_Yours fully,_

_T_


	7. Chapter 7

_2__nd__ March 1919_

_My love,_

_All this seemingly endless waiting is killing me too. I don't know how you could endure more than two years of that – because of me! – and not go insane. But we know we are doing the right thing, by finally not running away like foolish teenagers but rather building up a serious and sensible project for our foreseeable future and planning to announce that to both our families._

_I wish we could spend more time together, and alone. Each time I'm in the motor with Mama, or Granny, or Papa, I don't do much talking with them. I'm too busy looking at you, at the back of your head, and imagining all those things I would tell you if it were just the two of us in that car. And when Mary or Edith are in the car too, then I let you imagine the looks they give me, and even sometimes the nudges!_

_How do they behave towards you? Have you only been alone in the car with one or the two of them since we came back? I hope that they've not been unfair to you, that they've behaved correctly and not said anything bad or harsh or hurtful to you. Anyway, I know that even if they did, you wouldn't tell me._

_Every now and then, Mary is slipping in hints at how the coming London Season will be fabulous ("the first one since the end of the war, Sybil!" "the first in five years!" or "can you believe the last Season was yours! Poor darling, you've only had one season yet, you'll see how great it is to enjoy it without all the stress and pressure of being presented!"). Honestly! she can do much more subtle._

_Edith is only advising me to think it over again in depth, and I repeatedly tell her that it's precisely what I've done for months without her nor anyone else knowing it, but I did it nonetheless. I don't think she is that much shocked by the so-called class gap. She didn't say anything about that, anyway. I think she is just surprised her baby sister is ready for a life so different from the one we've always known. I don't think she has anything against you; all in all, I'd even think she likes you, maybe for having taught her how to drive._

_Come to think of that, it's rather ironic that it's because you taught her this that she was able to find us that night and bring me home from the Swan Inn… Sometimes life likes to play tricks. But don't regret it, we finally agreed that running away with no serious plan was much more foolish than truly romantic, didn't we?_

_Talking about plans, did you hear from your mother? How did she take the news?_

_I too miss you so much. Seeing you from time to time, stealing snippets of hours or couples of minutes here and there in the garage is far from enough. I'll try to come up with a reason for a trip to Ripon for which I would oh so conveniently need a car ride. _

_Except that each and every time my sisters hear about me needing the car (and the chauffeur!) to go somewhere, they find an excuse to be coming on the trip. Remember that time when Mary supposedly needed to go to Thirsk for an appointment with a new seamstress? Well, I wasn't particularly eager to visit this former fellow VAD in the hospital either, so I'm afraid the three of us just lost some hours that day. Though basically, it was a good plan, had Mary not imposed on the two of us!_

_I'm ranting here, I know. I'm sorry, I should be trying to cheer you up, as your last letter showed you certainly needed some of that as much as I do. I promise I'll try to make my next letter cheerful, to make up for today's rather frustrated one, alright?_

_Until then, remember we've never been closer to our future than right now…_

_I'm dreaming of you,_

_S_


	8. Chapter 8

_Mid-March 1919_

Sybil heard the gong and knew it was her cue to get changed. She put aside her letter to Gwen – she would finish it later – and smile remembering that cousin Isobel, miss Swire and cousin Matthew would come for dinner tonight. She liked being around them, because while being perfectly well-mannered, the three of them were the exact opposite of pompous.

Sybil couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for miss Swire, for in a hopefully very distant future, she'd have to be the Countess of Grantham, the mistress of Downton, and that was a way of life the young girl seemed not too keen on. A sentiment Sybil could relate to. Very much. And like Lavinia, Sybil was in love and her choice of a future husband implied some concessions, like a change in lifestyle. For a future that's worth having…

And on another side, Granny would be here too. Not that Sybil didn't like her grandmother, she deeply loved her. But the dowager countess's views were… often opposite to Mrs Crawley's, and sometimes to Sybil's too… Anyway, it was always interesting to have both her grandmother and cousin Isobel in the same room, Sybil thought with a smile.

A knock on the door. "Come in!" Sybil instructed. It was Anna, coming to dress her. The maid closed the door behind her, but didn't go immediately to the cupboard to fetch tonight's garment.

No. Instead she stood by the door, her hands clasped behind her back, seemingly having something to say but not knowing how.

"Yes, Anna?" Sybil asked gently.

"Erm… Milady…" she stopped.

"Yes?" Sybil repeated. Had Anna something to ask her that she didn't dare to? Lord knows that, after coming along her sisters to pick her up like a runaway child a few weeks ago and keeping silent about this – and the rest – Anna could ask her nearly anything…

"Err… Milady… I've been given a note to pass on to you…"

"Ah?" Sybil asked, nonplussed. "From whom?"

Anna sent her a meaningful look.

"I think you know, Milady…"

_Oh_, Sybil thought, her heart speeding a bit. And there was no way she would let that blush creep over her face. She tried to look detached as she held out her hand for the note.

"Thank you, Anna", she said once the maid had given her the folded leaf of paper. No, there was absolutely no way she would rush to open it and read it. Instead, she put it in a drawer and waited until Anna was done with brushing her hair and helping her undressed. Sybil tried hard to conceal her impatience, and it seemed to her that Anna had never been that slow before. But maybe it was just an impression. Unless Anna was deliberately taking her time, amused at the idea of teasing and tormenting her itchy mistress?

Alone at last! Sybil hastily ran to her drawer and unfolded the note with brusque and slightly quivering fingers.

_My beloved,_

_Having you so close and yet so far hurts. I've spent so much time loving you from afar that I should have come accustomed to that, you'd think… but that's apparently not how it works. Spending time with you seems to be as necessary as breathing or eating, you are like air or water: without a certain amount of your presence, I can't seem to function._

_Call me needy, call me clingy if you want, or even desperate or ridiculous, but please come to see me. I need my daily dose of talking with you._

_T_


	9. Chapter 9

_Mid-March 1919_

This morning, Tom Branson was driving three generations of Crawley women to some charity errand: grandmother, mother and daughter. The very daughter he preferred.

As always, due to precedence in rank and age, the dowager countess got first inside the car. Then, once she was settled, the chauffeur held his hand out to help Lady Grantham get in. And then only he turned to Sybil who was eagerly waiting for this brief and furtive excuse for holding his hand in public.

Due to this rule of precedence in age, his fiancée was always the last to get in or out of the motor, and they had soon learned to make the most of it: they always took this opportunity to make it last a bit longer than strictly necessary, to squeeze each other's hand, and as no one else was outside the car when she was about to get in, or inside when she was about to get out, he very slightly turned his back to them and his head to her, and often shot her longing and meaningful stares and loving smiles.

But this time like every other time, it was over all too soon and she was already seated in the car, undoubtedly as frustrated as he was by the brevity of their gloved touch. This time though, she had pressed his hand harder than usual, and shot him a look he couldn't quite decipher. Then she lowered their joined hands when she stepped in the car and used her thumb to bend his fingers over his palm while withdrawing hers.

Bemused, he closed the door and stealthily looked down to his hand: she had slipped a note in it while he was helping her get in the car. The nerve of it! Nearly right in front of her mother and, worse! her grandmother whose eyesight was as astute as her ability to catch anything going on around her.

He quickly pocketed the note and got to start the engine. He'd read it later.

* * *

_When I see you smile happily  
Is when the sun enters my heart.  
Your laugh is all the cheer I need.  
Next time at dawn, morning, midday,  
Afternoon, dusk, or at midnight,  
Off track I'll get, hearing it ring._

As soon as he heard old Lady Grantham's cane hit the pavement and getting closer, Tom wiped off the foolish smile he knew he'd been wearing and hastily put the slip of paper back in his pocket. But not fast enough for his gesture to have escaped the old lady's perception, unfortunately, as she made it known to him once he'd helped them in and started the engine.

"What is it you were just reading, Branson?" she asked from the back of the car.

He started slightly, gripping the wheel. He ventured a look at the rear-view mirror: the dowager countess seemed far more amused than suspicious. Probably supposing it's one of those leaflets or pamphlets about what she called '_these political follies of his'_, he thought.

Tom glanced at Sybil in the mirror: she was visibly holding her breath and a blush was creeping on her face – either out of concern or lack of oxygen, he couldn't tell.

He felt playful that day, that's why instead of politely and respectfully dismissing the dowager countess's remark with a simple _"nothing important, your Ladyship"_ or _"a letter from my mother, your Ladyship"_ he somehow chose an answer closer to the truth:

"Just some lame poetry, your Ladyship."

The look on Sybil's face was priceless, and was worth all the trouble he was sure she would be putting him through as soon as they can steal some minutes alone. But he reluctantly tore his eyes from the rear-view mirror and set his eyes on the road, paying attention to his driving.

"Oh," said the old lady, "is it really that bad? Show us, then."

_No way,_ Tom thought. They would recognise the handwriting. And there was still the risk that, seeing it in written form, they could decipher the note's hidden message.

"I would have to stop the motor for that, your Ladyship," Branson answered. "But I can recite it, if you want."

This time Sybil looked plainly panicked. Gawping slightly, with bulging eyes, she clearly thought he had lost it. As for Tom, he was having the time of his life. Smiling, he began to declaim:

_"When I see you / smile happily / is when the sun / enters my life"_

"He's right, that's rather bad," Sybil could hear her grandmother tell her mother.

Tom went on: _"Your laugh is all / the cheer I need"_

"Well, with those verses, the author could be sure to hear anyone's laugh" Violet stated.

Sybil scowled.

_"Next time at dawn / morning, midday / Afternoon, dusk / or at midnight / Off track I'll get / hearing it ring."_

"It doesn't even rhyme!" commented Cora against her best judgement.

"It doesn't, your Ladyship," Tom confirmed, "but at least it's not wonky: there's the right number of feet in each verse, with the caesura in the middle."

"Better than nothing, I guess" said old Lady Grantham.

In the back seat, Sybil was silently fuming.

Unfortunately for Branson, he wasn't the only one with a playful mood that day: the dowager countess seemed to share this spirit of teasing at the moment, and what a better target for it than that chatty chauffeur?

"And I suppose the author of this masterpiece is to be found amongst the young feminine part of the villagers…" she asked.

Sybil shrank back in her seat, while Tom had the good grace to blush, according to the colour creeping over his neck.

"With all due respect, your Ladyship, I hope you're not expecting me to give any name. It wouldn't be very gentlemanlike!"

He certainly wasn't the kind to kiss and tell, he thought. And for more than one reason, obviously.

The dowager countess was very much aware that the servants' love life wasn't a suitable topic of conversation, particularly in the presence of a young girl like Sybil, yet she couldn't help but tease the chauffeur a bit more:

"Well, I guess whoever she is she must have some other assets besides her poor literary skills…"

"Fortunately poetry isn't everything, your Ladyship" the chauffeur answered, neither confirming nor denying her assumption.

All this bashing of her hastily composed message finally got on Sybil's nerves, and she rather dryly cut in:

"Yes Branson, do make sure you have her know what exactly you think of her verses next time you see her…"

"I'll do just that, Milady, next Thursday on my next half-day off".

Hearing this, Sybil couldn't help but smile, though. _He's deciphered my message! He's seen through it! He's noticed the acrostic!_ Granted it was not very difficult to decode, hence her sudden fright when he accepted to deliver her mother and grandmother the exact words of her note. But yes, without seeing it put down on paper, it was far less obvious.

Totally oblivious to it, Cora apparently thought it was not proper for her young daughter to mind the chauffeur's private life.

"Sybil, darling, leave poor Branson in peace, this is none of your business!" she told her.

_And yet, my love life is a great deal of her business, though!_ Tom thought with a smile…

"And Mama," Cora went on, turning to her mother-in-law, "please don't tease him and let him drive safely. You don't want the motor to end up in a ditch!"

But Sybil wasn't listening anymore. Next Thursday she'll get to spend a whole afternoon alone with him. She'll find an excuse for her absence. She was looking forward to it. And yes, she had to admit that she rather botched the verses; but well, the poem itself wasn't important, was it? Only the acrostic was, and Tom got it loud and clear.

And according to the nerve and boldness he had displayed here, Sybil had just discovered a new thing about her betrothed: he liked playing with fire. Well, she'd be sure to remember that…


	10. Chapter 10

_End March 1919_

Reluctantly, Lady Sybil let go of the chauffeur's hand after he helped her out of the car, and she went to join her father and cousin Isobel by the front door. She had squeezed it, kept it a bit longer than was purely proper to, and stroked her fingers along his while letting go of it, in an attempt to both draw out the contact between their gloves and yet part while displaying gentleness to him in a caressing manner. All this being a way to express herself without using words.

He shortly drew in a breath, staring at his now empty hand. But he suddenly remembered his little plan and set it in motion before it was too late. Swiftly grabbing the book he had hidden under his own seat, he called:

"Oh, Milady, you're forgetting your book!"

He crossed the distance in a few steps and handed her the object, keeping a totally inexpressive and unreadable straight face. Puzzled, she hold her hand and took the book, lingering a bit and making the most of having both their fingers hidden to anyone's sight under the back cover to stroke his again. And again, he drew in a short breath, his cool and professional façade crumbling a bit.

She saw the corner of a folded slip of paper poke out of the pages, and lifted her gaze up to his again. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, she thanked him matter-of-factly, keeping a straight face all the while.

"Thank you Branson. It's a good thing you saw it, I would have not known were to look for it!"

She finally entered and joined her cousin Isobel and her father in the entrance hall.

"What is it you're reading, my dear?" Isobel asked.

Errr… _That_ was an excellent question, Sybil thought. She stealthily peeked at the front cover.

_The Ragged-Trousered Philantropists,_ it read.

"Oh!" Isobel exclaimed, "Excellent choice, Sybil!"

_Oh God!_ Isobel knew this book and had read it! Just her luck! Let's pray she wouldn't ask anything about it…

"But," cousin Isobel went on "I didn't know Robert had bought it for his library. Not much his usual reading material, I'd say…"

Sybil looked at the book: it too was rather ragged itself. Well no, not really ragged, but quite dog-eared, with its cover worn out. Read and re-read, she thought.

"It's Branson's" she answered, probably not lying.

"Oh, I see…" said her cousin.

"See what?" Sybil asked with an edge of alarm in her voice, and far too quickly. She bit her tongue.

"Well," Isobel answered matter-of-factly, "just how this book has made its way up to this house, that's it!"

_Oh_, Sybil internally sighed out of relief.

"I just hope it's the first 1914's edition, and not last year's abridged one," Isobel told her.

According to the weary state of the book, it was.

Sybil excused herself and took her leave as fast and as politely possible, and then took the stairs two by two up to her bedroom.

She slid the slip of paper out of the book and unfolded it, but was very much disappointed when she saw that, instead of being covered with that now so familiar handwriting, it was typed. Not a message from her fiancé, then. But why else did he put on this act?

She peeked at the typed note anyway, and soon went from disappointment to excitement.

_My wonderful sweetheart,_

_As you can see, I've embraced modernity and invested in a device that should help me, help us, find our way out of here and into our life together, in the form of a new job – if I ever find some newspaper interested in my prose, that is._

_I know this typewriter costs a real fortune, I'm sorry, I've not forgotten we talked about saving as much as I could, but it should enable us to finally start a new life and build ourselves a future. So see it rather as an investment. A small sacrifice for a future worth having…_

_In fact, at this very moment, I feel not unlike Gwen must have five years ago. Except she probably typed thrice as fast as I do. To tell you the truth, I'm significantly much slower right now than with a pen, but practice makes perfect, doesn't it?_

_Do you know it sometimes feels difficult to concentrate on what I'm writing – or trying to write – because of you? It's like I'm always thinking of you, like I'm drunk with you, like you've hypnotised my mind. What sort of sorcery is that? Do you know that only yesterday, just while Lord Grantham was less than two feet from me, instead of focusing on what I had to do, my mind didn't stop daydreaming about you, about you and me, about you in a way I probably shouldn't be thinking about you._

_And I just realise that I most likely shouldn't tell you that, let alone __**write **__that, given that daydreaming about one's true love in a certain state of __un__dress is probably not entirely proper while still unwed._

_I can't believe I've just written that. I probably should crumple this letter and throw it in the wastepaper basket, and rewrite it bar these previous three sentences, but we promised each other to be truthful towards the other, and not to conceal our thoughts or feelings. So I'll take the risk to let you read this version, and I'll pray that you won't think less of me or of the purity of my feelings for all that. Please don't._

_Please, forgive me this instant of weakness. You have every right to give me an earful for that next time you see me, but please do forgive me eventually._

_With my most devoted respect and my most sincere _3_ (or my most respectful and wholehearted devotion, or my most sincere respect and my most devoted _3_), yours always,_

_T_

_PS: Enjoy the book!_


	11. Chapter 11

_End March 1919_

Tired after having driven home Mrs Crawley, Miss Swire and Mr Crawley, Tom Branson opened his door and made a beeline to his bed, not caring to light a candle and hardly undressing from his uniform: he just took off his jacket, waistcoat and boots, and then collapsed on his bed.

The morning after, while preparing for the day ahead, he saw an envelope lying on the floor by the door. A sole brownish footmark was printed on it: he had probably stepped on it before taking off his boots and going to bed.

Knowing full well whom the missive was from, he tore the envelope opened and begun to read.

_My dearest,_

_I was so thrilled to discover in your last letter that you had bought a typewriter! It looks very professional and serious. I'm sure it'll help you find a new position._

_I was also intrigued that your typewriter had a key specially made for a heart-shaped symbol! I didn't know such a thing existed on the market… Is it what made you decide on this particular model, or is it sheer chance?_

_Don't feel bad for buying it, like you I think it's a sensible investment. Money well spent. So don't apologise, there's nothing to forgive._

_In fact, there really is __**nothing**__ to forgive. I blush to admit it, but I too did have some thoughts about you that are certainly not very ladylike, and it is very probably even less ladylike to tell you of that. I hope I'm not shocking you too much; you may judge me quite bold for it, but I also hope it won't tarnish your view on me nor your idea about my person. I can't help but have you in my thoughts, in my mind, and very much under my skin. And talking about skin, I can't help but dream about yours, wondering how it feels, and even sometimes how it tastes…_

At this point in his reading of Sybil's words, Tom had to stop and draw a sharp and deep intake of breath. He noticed it was a rather hoarse and shaky breath, and at the same time his free hand had clenched slightly into a fist, while his toes had curled a bit. The effect and power that woman's mere words had on his being were surreal.

_I'm well aware it's not entirely proper from me either to have such thoughts, but I tell you this to let you know you don't have to feel bad nor apologise for your thoughts, or else I have to as well. Well I suppose we'll both have to apologise to each other, and preferably in person and in a manner that we both find satisfying, yet seemly, at least for the time being – alas!_

He smiled at that: he was feeling rather satisfied that he could get her a bit hot and bothered, as much as she was making him. His rather smug nature couldn't help but feel proud of it. What's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh. Well, better not think about 'flesh' right now.

_Until then, I can only send you all the kisses and caresses this mere paper can hold and deliver._

_Tenderly yours,_

_S_

_PS: Interesting book, maybe we should try to pass it around downstairs…_


	12. Chapter 12

_April 1919_

Leaving the dining room alone after breakfast, Sybil was immediately accosted by Anna, who dragged her as respectfully as she could behind a pillar in the entrance hall. Here, nearly hidden to the view of anyone who would be passing by or coming down the stairs, the maid shoved a very small slip of paper into her mistress's hands.

"He asked me to give it to you as soon as possible," Anna provided by way of explanation.

No need this time to clarify who this 'he' was, Sybil guessed instantly whom the maid was referring to.

But she suddenly got worried. What was the rush? Why such a small paper? Was the message he had to pass on her so short?

Were they discovered?

Oh God, no! Not that!

Keep calm, keep calm Sybil. It's not like they were some spies, or traitors, or criminals. And eventually, everyone would know, they had promised each other to marry and love each other out in the open. After all if they were discovered, even a bit too early, it would spare her the stressful prospect of having to announce them the news… Because as gutsy as she fancied herself to be, she knew she will have her heart in her boots when she tells her family.

He said 'as soon as possible'. That was worrying enough, though. Did Mary reveal everything, despite her reassurance that she would not provided they wouldn't act in an improper and unseemly manner.

Turning, she leaned back against the pillar and, a knot in the pit of her stomach and a lump in her throat, she unfolded the note with slightly trembling fingers. It was not typed like the previous ones, but hastily scribbled:

_Exciting news by today's mail.  
Must see you as soon as possible.  
Come. We have matters to discuss._

_'Exciting'_… He wrote 'exciting', and not 'dreadful' nor 'bad'.

_Exciting_. 'Exciting' was definitely on the same side as 'good', as far as news was concerned. Wasn't it?

Still, there seemed to be a matter of urgency: _'Must see you as soon as possible'_… Sybil wondered where was the fire.

Still propped against the pillar in the hall, she looked again at the small leaf of paper.

_'By mail'_… News from home? From his mother?

Or… Would it be…

_'We have matters to discuss'_… Seemed pretty serious, she thought with a wee bit of dread. Serious but good, she reminded herself: 'exciting news' can only be good news.

But something they had to discuss about? If that was that good a piece of news, why discuss it? What would there be to discuss?

Unless it was life-changing news… something they had to make a decision about. Well after all, weren't they precisely expecting – seeking – a specific and drastic change of life?

_'By mail'_… Oh dear Lord! Did he finally receive a positive answer to one of his many job applications?

With a spring in her step, though still a little apprehensive, Sybil strode along the now more than familiar way to the garage…

**The End (or The Beginning?)**


End file.
